


Nightmares

by Kuroshit_10



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 06:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20755751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuroshit_10/pseuds/Kuroshit_10
Summary: Meyrin works through her selective amnesia. Ciel finally finds the one who killed his parents.





	Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> My first fan fiction for this website, so I apologize if the formatting or something is crappy.

When Meyrin was younger, she spent most of her time locked away in her house. It wasn’t her preference, but a result of her mother’s paranoia. Her mother, who would often warn Meyrin of the dangers of humanity. Of untrustworthy people who lived only for themselves.

“People will be kind to you,” her mother would say, “until you’re in their way. Once you are, they won’t hesitate to hurt you if it means achieving their goals… especially men,” her mother would add slyly at the end, the corners of her thin mouth curling.

How wise her mother had been, and how unfortunate that she could pass on so little of her wisdom. Meyrin’s mother died when Meyrin was only seven, shot by her husband.

Two years after, Meyrin moved to Europe. 

.

Meyrin doesn’t remember when the memories vanished. 

As far as she’s concerned, they were never there. Years of her life, passing by too quickly for her feverish mind to keep up. She’d always been a clumsy, foolish girl — it isn’t too difficult to fathom. Then again, perhaps she used to remember those years and something caused her to forget. Something cracked her worn skull like an egg, the yolk of her life spilling through the lesions. As much as she likes to deny it, Meyrin knows that’s probably the case. Too many memories gone from her teenage years— from the days after she left China and traveled a million miles to England for a better life.

A better life had not come easily— that much she remembers. Everything else is a messy puddle in the depths of her brain.

Sometimes the memories come back as dreams. At least, she thinks they do. After all, how’s she to discern between fact and fiction? But the dreams are so shockingly, disturbingly realistic that she has little doubt in her mind.

Just like Finny, Baldroy, and the young master, Meyrin often wakes mid-scream. After dusk, the Phantomhive manor is a house of nightmares.

This night is no different. Meyrin lays awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, her breath coming in short bursts. Her forehead is slick with a cold sweat that drips over her lashes and prickles her eyes. Her comforter is a mess, pooled around her splayed limbs like the waves of a stormy ocean.

Normally, Meyrin recovers from her dreams within seconds. Over the years, she’s only gotten better at this recovery process. Her brain can snap more easily from the world of nightmares back to the real world (though when she thinks about it, those two worlds are one in the same).  
But after this night, this dream, Meyrin takes almost an hour to stop shaking.

It’s because on this night, a new memory came to her— one she’s never seen before. 

The dream started in the dark. Fear. It flooded her senses, burrowing deep in her heart. A shotgun was cradled to her chest. A mask tied over her face. She waited and waited for the signal, taking great gasps of air through her nose and mouth to make sure she missed nothing. The signal, she remembers, was not a sound, but a smell. 

For some abstract amount of time she waited in the pasty silence, with only the sound of her labored breathing to comfort her. And then she smelt it. The smoke.

She remembers dashing out of the closet into a long hallway. She remembers a maid standing just feet away, the woman’s hands flying to her breast with surprise. She remembers shooting her and sprinting past, reloading within seconds. Then shooting others. How many, she doesn’t recall.

Even in the dream, everything was a blur.

And then she reached the room, and a sense of accomplishment settled over her. The job was almost done, the destination within sight. She doesn’t remember what exactly her mission was, but she can guess. She recalls cocking her gun and opening the door. Two children played on the other side. Two large pairs of eyes gazed upward...

As she lays in bed now, thinking about it, she supposes that it could’ve been only a dream. Just that, and nothing more. Because, surely she wouldn’t have seen two young masters on the other side of that door. Two pairs of bright blue eyes, blinking innocently up at her, wide from the shock of an unknown woman busting down their bedroom door. And if what she had envisioned really had occurred, certainly the young master wouldn’t have lived to tell the tale. Not that she remembers pulling the trigger. Her dream halted there.

The thoughts are comforting, but they don’t alleviate the tension in her gut. The utter horror that she’s done something terrible — not just to some stranger — but to someone she now holds dear. Her master, who saved her from the hell that was her previous life. The boy who gave her a place where she belonged. Had she taken everything from him?

The cool night air wafting lazily through an open window does little to calm Meyrin, but eventually she drifts into an uneasy sleep.

.

Just like every other morning in the past six years, a sharp rapping on Meyrin’s door wakes her. The maid turns over in bed, reaching for her spectacles.

“I’m up,” she calls, words slurring. It takes a great effort, but eventually she’s able to push herself off the bed and over to the cupboard, where she changes quickly into her corset and uniform.

Down the hallway, two left turns, one right turn, and she’s in the kitchen. Baldroy, Tanaka, and Sebastian are already there, and Finny trickles in seconds later, his hat askew. Finny, like any other teenager, is notoriously late at rising.

Meyrin’s brain is still muddled with sleep as she takes an apron off of one of the hooks next to the door. The nightmare of last night scuttles it’s way back into her mind as she’s cleaning the morning dishes. The dream seems so distant and impossible, and Meyrin feels foolish for worrying at all.

The smell of eggs wafts through the kitchen, followed quickly by the smell of smoke.

“Baldroy!” Comes a hiss from the other side of the kitchen. “What are you doing? Are you trying to set the kitchen alight?”

Barely two minutes together, and Sebastian and Baldroy are quarreling again. Meyrin used to find it amusing, but years of the same foolish arguments have tired her. Why must the two argue so often? She suspects it’s some sort of ‘alpha male’ situation, as the two both like taking charge— the difference between them being that Sebastian actually is in charge, and is amazingly good at it as well. He’s occasionally able to corral the servants of the household, which is an almost inhuman accomplishment. Baldroy, on the other hand… Meyrin shudders to think what would happen if he was in charge.

The burning eggs are taken off the frying pan and thrown into the garbage, alongside many of Baldroy’s other experiments. Meyrin might have gotten better at her maid duties, but Baldroy was no better a chef than he had been six years ago. Perhaps that fact had more to do with an unwillingness to improve as opposed to an inability to.

“Meyrin!” Meyrin’s head snaps up. Sebastian’s calling from the other end of the kitchen. “More towels, please. From the supply closet.” An order.

“Yes sir!” Meyrin rushes to the supply closet, careful not to trip over any of the chairs in her path. The closet isn’t close to the kitchen, and Meyrin has to round several corners to find it. 

The closet is large and dark inside, full of all sorts of things. It used to scare Meyrin to enter it, but that silly fear has disappeared over the years. Now, Meyrin needn’t even turn on the lights to find what she’s looking for. Her hand had a mind of its own as it reaches towards the extra towels, taking several off the top of the stack. Towels in hand, she turns to leave. And then it hits her.

This closet. It was the closet in her dream.

She’s not sure how she knows, but there’s no doubt in her mind. This is it. The very one. Her heart flutters violently in her chest, and she has to lean on the doorframe as she’s filled with horror. Her vision dims and for a second she thinks she’s going to pass out.

And then she’s walking back to the kitchen. Her mind is muddled, and she can barely keep track of all the hallways, though she’s walked this route thousands of times. She reaches the kitchen, hands the stack of towels to Sebastian, who eyes her suspiciously, and sits heavily on a kitchen chair next to Finny.

Finny’s reading and doesn’t notice her. His brilliant green eyes dart back and forth. Ever since the kid learned to read fluently, he’s spent every free minute with his face buried in a book. It still seems strange to Meyrin— that such an extroverted teenager would spend so much of his day reading, but Finny is no ordinary kid. 

“Hey, Finny,” Meyrin whispers, catching the teen’s attention, “I need to ask you something. Come out in the hall with me.”

Finny looks up at her, wide eyes open innocently. Even at eighteen years, he’s got a strong, childish innocence about him.

“Why?”

“Oh, just come,” Meyrin grabs him by his arm and drags him out of the kitchen and into the hallway. It’s an effort, as he’s incredibly strong and taller than she. Luckily, he comes willingly.

“Hey, where are we going?” He asks. He’s looking at Meyrin like she has two heads. She’s never been this physical or forward with him, so perhaps he’s wondering what possessed her.

Meyrin stops dragging Finny just outside and to the right of the kitchen. She spins him to face her.

“I just need to ask you a question. It’s about the young master. I figured you’d know him better than the rest of us, yes?”

Finny furrows his brows. “Why don’t you ask Sebastian?”

Meyrin signs. She’d considered this, but quickly rejected it. Sebastian certainly wasn’t the most approachable of the servants, and although he was always kind to Meyrin, she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to harm her if he knew she’d hurt the master. And he’d surely be suspicious. That man was sharp as a tack. Also, Meyrin still had great difficulty when it came to talking to him.

“I don’t want to ask Sebastian. I want to ask you.”

Finny raises his eyebrows but doesn’t comment, though the look he gives Meyrin makes it clear that he thinks she’s being silly. One of the bad things about Finny growing older is that he’s now aware of Meyrin’s little crush on the household butler. Either he had found out of his own accord, or Baldroy had told him, thinking it funny. Meyrin suspects the latter.

“Look, I just want to know if you know about the young master having a brother? A twin perhaps? Has he — oh, I don’t know — said anything about that?”

Finny squints quizzically. Meyrin, exasperated, is about ready to throw her hands into the air and shout. Why is it so hard for him to answer a simple question? Why is everyone so suspicious?

“No,” he answers eventually, “he doesn’t really talk about that stuff with me. You do know who you’re talking about, right? The young master never says anything about his past.”

Meyrin grunts, biting her lip. His answer is disappointing, but it’s what she expected. The young master doesn’t talk about his past, and the servants don’t ask — it’s the unspoken law of the household: no discussing the past.

“You know, you’d really have a lot more luck with Sebastian. I know you don’t want to, but you should really ask him.” Finny says. He keeps glancing back at the kitchen, like he’s eager to end the conversation. 

“Yeah, I know,” Meyrin’s loathe to admit it, but at this point, asking Sebastian is her best shot at an answer. “Alright, thanks anyway Finny.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

They walk back to the kitchen. Finny takes up his book again, and Meyrin starts working up her courage to ask Sebastian about Ciel’s family. Breakfast crackles and pops on the stove, it’s sweet smell filling the bright room.

It’s dinner that smolders on the stovetop when Meyrin finally works up the courage to speak with Sebastian. She’s been gathering her strength all day, sometimes walking up to the man before losing her courage and turning sharply away. Luckily, she’s able to catch him in one of his rare free-moments. He’s reading a book, waiting for the lamb to finnish cooking, when she taps him on the shoulder.

“Sebastian,” she squeaks, her breath failing her, “may I have a word?”

The butler glances over his shoulder, red eyes wide with surprise at being approached by the maid. Meyrin never initiates conversation with him. Ever.

“Of course,” he says, turning around in his chair, “what’s ailing you?”

Now that she has eye contact with him, Meyrin’s courage fails her. Perhaps it has something to do with her attraction to him, but his eyes seem more piercing than anyone else’s, as if he’s concentrating completely on her and nothing else. She has half a mind to tell him some quick rubbish, just so she can break eye contact and breathe. But she’s come this far, and it would be a shame to retreat.

“I just- I just want to know something about the young master. It’s important.”

Sebastian’s clearly taken aback. Meyrin can almost see the cogs turning in his head as he stares at her, bewildered. She braces herself.

“You can ask,” he says finally, “but I may not answer.”

Meyrin nods, relieved. This much she expected. He might not know the answer, or he’s forbidden to tell her. That much she understands.

“This is a strange question, sir, but I must know if the young master had a brother. A twin, perhaps?”

Sebastian’s gaze hardens, and Meyrin has her answer.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. Why ask?”

Meyrin considers telling him. Spilling her guts out, letting him know about her stolen memories and daily nightmares, and the dream she had last night. It might take a weight off her chest, but what would it help? Best case, he’d think her crazy. Worst case? She shudders to think of it.

“I just- Curiosity.”

“Of course,” His voice is heavy with sarcasm. She can hardly breathe. He stands there, staring down at her menacingly, before asking, “Is that all?”

“Um- yes. Thank you,” Meyrin rushes out of the kitchen with no destination in mind. Her cheeks are burning from her disastrous encounter with Sebastian, and her hands shake with nerves, but worst of all is the sinking feeling in her gut. Sebastian didn’t need to say anything about the young master; his reaction to her question was clear enough. Ciel Phantomhive had a twin. 

Her dream is becoming more and more real by the second. 

.

Sleep did not come easily that night. Meyrin was surprised it came at all. After hours of tossing and turning, her eyelids finally drooped and her heart finally slowed.

As soon as she was unconscious, a dream emerged, pushing its way through the spindly fibers of her muddled mind. 

She was in the house again. She marched down the charred, bloody hallways with two children corralled in front of her. She pushed them along with the barrel of her gun, urging them further down the hallway, and they stumbled nervously forward. Each child clung to the other’s hand.

Down one hallway after another they walked. Dream-Meyrin hasn’t walked these halls ever before, but she knows the route like the back of her hand. Her mind was blank, just as it always is in combat, before she reached her second destination — her second checkpoint. Two men at the end of a corridor. She ushered the children towards them, turned back the way she came, and ran.

It was snowing outside. Light, cool feathers dusted her nose and cheeks, wetting the ends of her crimson hair. She stumbled through the blanket of snow, her socks already sopping wet beneath her boots. It was only when she was far enough away from the burning house —only when her breath could not be heard, and she could not be seen— that she allowed herself to weep. The tears bled through her palms, crystallizing on the snowy tundra below.

She wakes up in tears.

.

“Mey-rin, are you alright?” 

Finny, bless his heart, has finally looked up from his book, and is staring at Mey-rin. Her face is void of tears, but even she knows it must look pale as paper. After last night, she hasn’t been able to get the sinking feeling out of her stomach, nor the butterflies out of her chest. Nothing feels quite real anymore, and she finds herself contemplating wether this is all one long, twisted nightmare that she’ll wake up from in a few hours, drenched in cold sweat, her heart filled with relief. But such things are too good to be true. The only way to wake up from the nightmare that is life, Meyrin imagines, is death. 

“Yes I’m fine.” 

She avoids Sebastian all morning. As much as she can, she avoids Ciel and Baldroy too. Her face is perpetually downward, her eyes trailed on the floor, memorizing the cracks in the hardwood. Occasionally, she’ll count the strands of fur in the carpet. 

Chores are too much. Existence is too much. The day passes both too slowly and too quickly, and before long Meyrin finds herself locked up in her room once more, dreading sleep. Instead of submitting to slumber, she decides to sit at her desk and stare at a blank piece of notebook paper. Her mind races as she stares at the thing, mockingly empty before her. Nothing. She stares at it for almost an hour, occasionally chewing the end of her pen or smacking her palm against the flat of her forehead.

Midnight is when the first idea comes. Not an idea, exactly, but a symbol, which Meyrin sketches carefully onto the paper. She’s not a skilled artist, but the symbol comes naturally, as if her hand has been repetitively trained to sketch it. The insignia is a series of flourishing lines trapped within an oblong circle, along with a few minute details outside the circle. It looks innocent enough to the objective viewer, but the sight of it fills Meyrin with a terrible feeling, and she knows she’s remembered something important.

Taking a deep breath, Meyrin stands up and paces around the room, her hands glued to the sides of her head as she thinks. Mumbling under her breath, she sits back down and picks up the pen once more, dipping it quickly in ink before writing something new.

“Viscount Julius Hamilton, Viscount Harris Lollards, Baron Fredrick Hans,”

She speaks the names aloud as they flow from the tip of her pen as if by magic. Finally, her brain feels empty, and she collapses onto her mattress.

It could all be rubbish. There’s no guarantee that what resides in her mind contains any ounce of truth at all, but there’s a feeling in Meyrin’s gut that she can’t shake. It was long ago when Meyrin learned to trust her gut. 

Blowing out the candles and tucking herself in, Meyrin decides that she’ll go to the Earl tomorrow. That she’ll set things right. The finality of the decision allows her to fall into a dreamless sleep. 

.

For the first half of the day, Meyrin requests that she take off her duties and ventures instead deep into the forests surrounding the Phantomhive manor. The leaves are finally coloring with age, drifting off trees and onto the ground where the crunch beneath Meyrin’s feet. How short is the lifespan of a single leaf, Meyrin muses, to have less than a year to live. Already in her late twenties, and Meyrin feels no older than she felt years ago. Somewhere inside her is still that scared little girl, shivering perpetually in her matured shell.

Sun is setting when she makes her way back to the manor, treading through the same leafy pathway until the house is in sight. The building is black against the brilliant reds and yellows of the setting sun, and it makes for a pretty picture. Meyrin almost wishes she could paint it, though she’s never so much as touched a set of paints. The idea is almost humorous to her — sitting down to paint something when there is so much tragedy happening everywhere, both near and far from London. How can people simply ignore everything and sit down to absorb the world? Even now, even alone, Meyrin’s fingers itch for the pistol tucked at her side. 

It’s after dinner time, so the master is in his study, picking away at a considerable stack of paperwork. It’s what he’s done for hours at a time ever since he was a young child, and his tolerance for the monotonous work has grown. However, despite the paperwork, despite holding a large title from a young age —despite everything, Ciel’s grown into a fine young man, Meyrin thinks fondly. There’s something about him, something that was there even when he was a child, that makes one want to listen to what he says, to follow his word. Somehow, he always seems to know what the next step should be. It’s rather comforting, his titanium confidence, his flawless self-assurance. The most frightening moments are the ones when he crumbles.

Hesitantly, Meyrin knocks on the study’s door. Anxiety wells in her chest. She knows she’s not permitted to be here, and that low-ranking servants directly requesting their master’s attention for personal reasons is uncouth. From the other side of the door, there’s the sound of a chair scraping against the carpet, the sound of footsteps, and the sound of the handle turning and squealing slightly as it does. The door opens, and Ciel looks down at her.

Once a head shorter than Meyrin, Ciel is now about a foot taller, almost reaching even Sebastian’s height. Almost everyone was shocked by the boy’s growth spurt around his fifteen year, when he shot up almost a foot, growing tall for his age. Meyrin had assumed he’d always be a short, feminine boy, and then a short, feminine man, but time had proven her wrong. Then again, there was a rather feminine quality to the young man’s large, glassy eyes, thin face and long lashes. Perhaps he hadn’t completely outgrown his youthful qualities.

“Meyrin. What is it?” Ciel’s clearly annoyed, though he seems to be trying to quell the feeling. He looks down at Meyrin with an air of condescension. He leans casually on the doorframe. 

“I need to talk to you,” Meyrin says firmly, just as she’s rehearsed. No sheepishness will fly in this confrontation with her master. Luckily, she’s accustomed to swapping faces when the situation demands it. 

Ciel’s eyes flutter upward in thought. “Very well. Come in.”

She does, and they sit across from each other, the small expanse of Ciel’s desk a desert between them. As usual, paperwork is spread across the wooden surface, in both orderly piles and mountains of chaos. That’s Ciel’s standard method of operation — tidiness with a dash of chaos. 

Meyrin fidgets as she tries to remember where to start. She knows what she’s going to say will sound foolish, so she decides to start from the beginning.

“I’m not sure if you were ever aware, sir, but since you hired me I’ve been struggling with memories. Well, recently some of those memories have returned to me, and I think they would be of great interest to you.”

“In what way?” Ever the businessman, Ciel’s head rests on his fists and he gets to the point.

“I remember things surrounding certain… important events in your lifetime.” She hints vaguely. She bites her lip and pauses because doesn’t want to say it. She needs him to figure it out. Fortunately, her master has always been bright, and his expression lights with realization.

“You’re not pulling my leg, I hope?”

“No sir.”

Ciel leans back in his chair. “I hope you know I take this sort of thing very seriously, Meyrin. Are you sure I need to know what you’re about to tell me?”

“Yes sir.” She says without hesitation. A gust of wind drifts through the open window from behind Ciel, caressing Meyrin’s face and hair. The wind is cold and fast, and dark clouds in the distance hint that it brings a storm.

Meyrin watches as Ciel struggles to collect himself in front of her. Though most wouldn’t have noticed, she observes that his breathing has quickened, and that his cheeks have paled. Once more, nine years from the infamous tragedy, Ciel is a scared little boy caught in a cage. 

He takes a deep breath. “Well then, why don’t you tell me why you’re here.”

And she does. She relays every last detail from her dreams to him, from the lay of the old Phantomhive manor to the hair color of the servants she shot all those years ago. Some details stick out more than others— she suspects it has something to do with adrenaline.

The clouds overhead grow darker and darker, and thunder rumbles in the distance. Curtains flap against the window frame. Cool air tinged with the fresh smell of unborn rain and darkness wafts in from the forest outside. 

How fitting, thinks Meyrin as she rattles on— a storm’s approaching. It’s like something out of a Dickens novel.

She shows Ciel the notebook paper from last night, digging it out of her apron pocket, unfolding it, and handing it to him. His eyes are wide as he takes the paper and scans it quickly. His face is more pale than she’s ever seen it before, and a queasy feeling in her stomach makes her regret ever coming to see him.

After what seems like an hour of stony silence, Ciel re-folds the paper, tucks it in his pocket, and walks out of the room without a word. Meyrin is left standing in the darkness, staring at the storm clouds through the window.

.

Ciel leaves the manor and doesn’t return for weeks. Sebastian, as ever, follows him, and the servants are dangerously left by their lonesome. Bard and Finny stalk about unhappily, grumbling about their master’s unannounced absence and eating scraps of food from the cabinets. Though Baldroy and Finny pester her with questions, Meyrin can’t bring herself to say a word about Ciel’s absence. She can’t help but fear that he’ll never come back, and the fear is enough to seal her lips.

After two weeks of being left unsupervised, Bard decides to test a large explosive in the kitchen, leading to the destruction of half the manor. Drafts from the chilly autumn air drift into the manor through the gaping whole in the west wing. Food runs low, and the servants are forced to pick apples and carrots from the gardens. They consider walking to the market, but Ciel didn’t leave a horse, and it’s more than a day’s walk from the manor. They decide they’ll wait until their master gets home, if he ever does.

Meyrin doesn’t think he ever will.

Time passes, and though it’s hardly been a month since Ciel left, it feels like it’s been years. Meyrin sleeps less and less each night. She claws at her arms and legs, scratching them until they bleed to punish herself. To rid herself of the ugliness that hurt one of the few people she’s ever cared about, that quite possibly could have ruined her entire life. She cries into a pillow. There’s no one close enough to her bedroom to hear her sobs, but they still feel wrong un-smothered.

A month and a half after Ciel left, and the servants look like wild men. The manor is hardly there anymore. The frosty deadness of winter is fast approaching, and Meyrin doesn’t feel she can take it anymore— whatever ‘it’ is. 

Of course, that’s when he returns.

One day after the first snow, Finny wakes up to find Sebastian in the kitchen, cooking breakfast as if he’d never left. Meyrin and Baldroy find Ciel in his study minutes later, looking over paperwork. The house had been majestically repaired overnight.

At a first glance, it seems to Meyrin that everything’s returned to normal. A weight that she’s carried in her chest for the past few months lifts, and she resumes her normal life. She happily cleans, washes, and launders for the next few days. Then it becomes apparent that something’s wrong.

Ciel walks around with a dead, haunted look in his eyes. It isn’t unusual to see the boy troubled, considering his history, but this look is something new. And strangely, it’s almost always directed at Meyrin. He peeks at her out of the corner of his eye when he thinks she isn’t looking, and if he happens to catch her gaze, he quickly glances away. Sebastian sneaks looks at her too, but in a different way. Ever since the butler returned to the manor, he’s seemed more up-beat... cheerful, if you will. Even the other two servants notice it.

But a change in the moods of Ciel and Sebastian are nothing compared to the hardship of their absence, so Meyrin ignores the difference. She doesn’t notice what’s happening until it’s too late.

She’s in the middle of folding laundry when Sebastian takes her by the shoulders, steering her abruptly into the hallway. He does it so suddenly, and without a word, and Meyrin nearly jumps out of her skin. She stares back at him as he pulls her into the hall, astounded by his behavior. She expects to see him look apologetic, but instead he completely ignores her in favor of staring aimlessly ahead.

In the hallway, near the left corner, leans Ciel. He gazes at her solemnly.

“Hello, Meyrin.”

“Master?” She asks breathlessly, her heart racing, “what is it?” Her brain races as she tries to imagine what brand of trouble she’s in this time, and what’s going to happen to her. This grim encounter certainly has something to do with her involvement in her master’s family’s murder. Will she be fired? It’s not unlikely, but the thought fills her with dread.

After a long silence, Ciel looks Meyrin dead in the eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

He pulls a pistol from his back pocket, and shoots her in the head.

.

Her thoughts are scattered.

The thump of her body hitting the floor.

An overwhelming pain.

Red eyes staring down at her, and then a scream so loud it hurts her ears. It sounds like the young master, but why would he be screaming? Her brain hurts.

The last thing she sees is her mother, gazing down at her fondly, kind features blurred.

She smiles. “This is why you can’t trust men.”

Meyrin chokes on the lump of blood swelling in her throat, and everything fades to black. 

.

Ciel watches the body of his maid hit the floor. He expects to feel remorse, but as he stares down the barrel of his gun, he feels nothing. He hasn’t felt anything for a long time. He pockets the gun.

Sebastian stands across the hallway, his eyes glowing. The corners of his mouth curl up into a sneer. “Impressive, master. I expected you to hesitate. Turns out I underestimated you.” He looks down at Meyrin’s body offhandedly, watching the girl writhe and twitch on the floor, the light fading out of her eyes.

Ciel scowls. “She’s the last one, isn’t she? So stop stalling. Get on with it.” He collapses against the wall for emphasis, letting his head thunk against it. He closes his eyes and waits for the fear to seize his heart, but still he feels nothing. Nevertheless, a tear falls lamely from his eye. 

“Of course, my lord.” A darkness falls over the room. Sebastian, fangs bared, advances on him faster than he can comprehend, and within seconds he’s screaming. His insides burn and his chest aches as his soul is torn from his body, only to disappear moments later.

In the end, it is only Sebastian that walks away.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Critique appreciated.


End file.
